


Piano Fingers

by masi



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masi/pseuds/masi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nijimura does not understand why Akashi is so fond of watching Midorima play the piano.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piano Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Kuroko no Basket_ (c) Tadatoshi Fujimaki.

After dinner, Midorima sits down at his grand piano and starts playing. This is kind of stupid, in Shuuzou’s opinion. Entertaining the guests by playing them a song is something people did when they didn’t have a 60 inch plasma screen and awesome FIBA games to watch on it. What, are they living in the Victorian Age or something? But Akashi’s gaze goes all soft and sentimental as he watches Midorima stroke the keys on the piano, and Shuuzou gets a little caught up in the moment too, finds himself listening attentively to the gentle melody as he finishes his tea. 

And then Midorima starts pounding on the keys, swaying his head to the tune, getting really into it like those famous pianists on those boring educational channels. His hands flying left and right, his eyes half-closed. Exactly like those tuxedoed men in piano concertos, which no one under the age of forty should go to. Shuuzou glances at Akashi, wanting to share a laugh. He almost knocks over his tea cup when he sees the expression on Akashi’s face.

No one should look that enraptured, have that kind of soppy smile, while looking at another person when your boyfriend is sitting right next to you on the couch. Shuuzou wants to say something, but there are two sugar spoons lying on the coffee table, and although Akashi’s violent tendencies have subsided somewhat over the years (he’s almost as cute as he was in Teiko, back when he called Shuuzou “Nijimura-san,” with such respect; really, he was such an adorable kouhai), there is still the possibility that Akashi will threaten him with physical pain if this happy listening-time is interrupted. He decides to wait until the score is finished. 

As soon as the last note fades into the vanilla-scented living room air, and just as Midorima is about to turn around on his piano stool, Shuuzou hisses at Akashi, “Really? I thought you only had a crush on Kuroko back at Teiko! When did this start?”

Akashi raises an eyebrow, murmurs, “What are you talking about, Shuuzou?” And then, louder, “That was beautiful, Shintarou. When do you have time to practice?”

Midorima fails to hide a pleased smile as he adjusts his glasses with fingers that used to be bandaged all the time at Teiko and thus 100 percent less attractive. “I set aside an hour or two in the mornings, depending on my shifts at the hospital,” he says. “I was against the idea of having a piano here at first, but my sister insisted on buying one for me in the hopes I will play for her occasionally.”

“It must be nice to have Shintarou as a brother,” Akashi remarks. “So busy and successful, and yet he has time to play the piano.” 

Clearly Akashi is still annoyed over the fact that Shuuzou failed to attend his last shogi game. There is no other explanation for such obvious attempts at making him jealous. But seriously, how many games does Akashi expect him to attend? And he had planned to go, but there were problems with the databases at work, so he had to spend all weekend fixing them. Besides, watching people play shogi is only slightly more interesting than watching advertisements for toilet paper.

Shuuzou says, loudly, “Yeah, great playing, Midorima. You know what, we should get together more often. But next time let’s play basketball. I hope you haven’t lost your touch.”

***

Akashi has forgiven him by the next morning, judging by the kitchen table. It has been laid out with a Western-style breakfast from Shuuzou’s favorite brunch place. At the center of the table, right between the pitcher of coffee and the crêpes, sits a sparkling glass vase filled with fresh red roses. There is soft, slow music playing from the iPad propped up on the counter. Akashi, in a blue yukata that is tied very loosely and shows off a lot of gorgeous skin, is leaning against the balcony door, sipping coffee. 

Shuuzou catches the reflection of Akashi’s smile in the door before Akashi says, “Good morning. Slept well?”

“Yeah.” Shuuzou walks over to him and puts a hand between his shoulder blades. Akashi has a pretty face, but the view from behind is just as beautiful. The line of his shoulders, the red hair trailing down his neck, those are Shuuzou’s favorites. 

He is drawing a heart on that lovely nape with his tongue, inhaling in the clean scent of Akashi’s shampoo, when he registers the music playing in the background. It is the exact same melody Midorima was playing last night. There is no doubt. 

“What the fuck, Akashi!” Shuuzou protests. He grabs the iPad for a closer look. Some Youtube video is showing a pianist who isn’t Midorima but has similar fingers, long and thin. Shuuzou hits the sleep button.

“Alright, I’ll go to your next shogi game!” he says. “You can stop pretending you have a crush on Midorima!”

“There is no need to shout,” Akashi replies, pulling out a chair and sitting down. “And I don’t have a crush on Shintarou. I was watching that video because I occasionally enjoy watching people play the piano.”

Shuuzou wishes for a moment that he had paid more attention in his piano lessons. His fingers aren’t as thin as Midorima’s, but they have always been on the long side, and when he was a kid, he had an aptitude for banging on things while warbling on the top of his lungs. His mom had put him in a weekend class. However, the teacher quickly realized that he was a lost cause. After a month of him messing up his majors and minors, sharps and flats, the teacher offered to give their money back.

Akashi looks a little sad now, sitting next to the roses, and Shuuzou feels guilty for jumping to conclusions. He will have to come up with some way to make it up to him. There is nothing to do now except kiss Akashi until he smiles again and then have breakfast.

***

“A piano concerto?” Akashi says, eyebrows rising so high they almost vanish into his bangs.

“Yes. Since you like watching people play so much and all.” 

Shuuzou hands over the tickets that cost him almost all of last month’s wages, and the ticket lady points out the doors to the concert hall. He starts towards them. He is halfway there when he realizes that Akashi is lagging behind. 

“What?” Shuuzou demands.

Akashi frowns. “Why didn’t you tell me we were going to be attending a concerto?” he asks. 

“It’s called a surprise.”

“You didn’t plan it very well.” He points to his red shirt. “I am not dressed for the occasion.”

Shuuzou can’t believe this. “We’re both wearing ties, you idiot. Are we supposed to be dressed like them?” He jerks his head in the direction of the people entering the hall. A few of them do look nice, their suits and dresses modern and tasteful (and okay, maybe he should have worn a bow tie too), but the others are in dire need of consulting a fashion blog or magazine. Tweed suits and feathered hats belong in cosplay and costume dramas, not here.

He adds, “We’re not wearing jeans, right? Your pants are appropriate. And I did tell you to wear something nice. It’s your fault.”

Akashi adjusts the knot of his tie. “I assumed we were going to a nice restaurant for dinner.”

“You should give a guy a little credit. I’m capable of taking you to places like this too.”

After sighing out his displeasure, Akashi reaches up and adjusts Shuuzou’s own tie, turns the collar down, and, after licking a thumb, slicks his hair back, which is a little gross but also kind of hot. 

He says, his hand resting above Shuuzou’s heart for a brief moment, “The only reason why I care about appropriate attire is because I don’t want to draw attention. Next time, please inform me beforehand if we are to attend an event like this. And,” he smiles, “thank you. This is very thoughtful and kind of you.”

Shuuzou follows him into the concert hall. They sit down in the third row, the “best seats in the house,” according to the descriptions on the website. Their row is a little above the stage yet close enough that they can see the musicians without craning the neck or squinting.

Several members of the audience do turn to stare at them, particularly in their own row, but that could be because of Akashi’s flaming red hair and mismatched eyes, not necessarily due to their lack of blazers. Akashi stares back at their spectators until everyone has gone back to minding their own business. When the lights start to dim, he puts his hand on Shuuzou’s, twines their fingers together.

The musicians enter the stage and take their seats. The pianist for tonight is someone very famous no doubt, but Shuuzou can’t remember the name and doesn’t bother to check it on the programme either. As long as Akashi is satisfied with the performance, Shuuzou has gotten his money’s worth.

The music starts up, slow and nice. Akashi looks happy enough, one hand still resting in his, one elbow propped up against the elbow rest. He used to watch Shuuzou with this much focus too, when they were both at Teiko, later in their high school years, when Akashi had chosen to reenter his life again. 

Akashi had shown up on Shuuzou’s doorstep shortly after his first high school Winter Cup, asking after Shuuzou’s family, wanting to play basketball. He would come all the way from Kyoto during school holidays to practice with Shuuzou. It was hard to turn him down, and not just because of the “I would like to perfect my slam dunk, Nijimura-san, and you’re the best power forward I know.” The thing is, Akashi Seijuurou is absolutely phenomenal when playing basketball, whether it be with a team under the bright lights of a gymnasium or just himself under the flickering lamplight of gritty street courts, zooming past Shuuzou to reach the basket. Shuuzou could watch Akashi all day. 

He missed Akashi, more than a little, when Akashi graduated from Rakuzan and went off to study aboard. But they kept in contact through text messages and the occasional phone call and visit, and Akashi came back to him after four years, kissed him until they were both red in the face and breathless, and then suggested that they move in together. He chose an apartment close to Shuuzou’s office, so that people don’t get too suspicious about the living arrangement. 

Akashi’s father hasn’t asked any questions yet. The old man probably considers the arrangement as noblesse oblige on his eccentric, hoi polloi-loving son’s part, like, how nice, my boy is helping his senpai cut down on his commute. Or maybe (most probably), the old man knows more than he lets on and is just tolerating the relationship until he finds a proper heiress for his son to marry. 

Anyway, they’re still living together, and Shuuzou occasionally wonders why Akashi hasn’t sent him packing yet, but he is also grateful. Happy, every single night, hearing Akashi’s soft “tadaima” as he steps into the apartment. Shuuzou isn’t going to do anything stupid like ask why me and not someone else, but he has a feeling that it’s because in Akashi’s otherwise stressful life, he is an uncomplicated constant. Whatever the reason, Shuuzou is determined not to fuck this up. Which is why he’s doing things like spending a beautiful spring night stuck inside this dark concert hall, trying not to fall asleep as the orchestra passionately plays what sounds like a glorified lullaby.

***

At the intermission, Akashi stands up and says, “The first symphony wasn’t bad. But I think we should go now.”

“What?” Shuuzou pinches himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming. “Are you kidding me? After I went through so much trouble to get those tickets too!”

“There is something else I would rather be doing.”

“You didn’t like the pianist? Couldn’t see his fingers well enough? Maybe we can go up later for a-”

“Shuuzou.” Akashi pulls on his arm. “Come with me, please.”

He follows Akashi out of the building and back to their car. Akashi gets into the driver’s seat and starts driving in the direction of their apartment. “You at least want to get dinner first?” Shuuzou asks, a little annoyed. 

It’s not that he dislikes spending time at home with Akashi, they are rarely both back from work by ten, but they tend to get distracted when they are in the apartment, Shuuzou with the TV, Akashi with the shogi board that is perpetually set up in front of the living room windows. With the mundane chores that the cleaning service doesn’t take care of, like putting away washed clothes and paying bills.

“We can have dinner,” Akashi replies, but then he drives into a car park and takes a basketball out of the trunk.

Shuuzou has the occasional one-on-one with old teammates, but he hasn’t played with Akashi in at least a year. He says, “You left the concert for this? You’re acting very weird tonight, Sei.”

They go to a street court a block from the car park. It’s not as nice as the one near their apartment, but the broken light at the corner reminds him of the courts they used to practice on after Teiko. He smiles as he rolls up his sleeves.

“Alright, let’s see what you’ve got,” he says.

Akashi loosens his tie. His eyes are gleaming. When he starts to unbutton his shirt, Shuuzou feels his mouth go dry.

Just as Akashi is getting to the third button, a group of teenagers arrive. He stops immediately. The boys step onto the court, glancing from Akashi to Shuuzou, expressions wary.

“Oi,” Shuuzou says, “get lost. We’re having a game.”

The tallest of them, probably the leader judging by how the others have formed a circle around him, laughs, and then sneers, “You two? What kind of basketball do ossan play? Geriatric basketball?”

Shuuzou regrets that hitting other people’s kids is considered a crime and not a disciplinary method. Akashi remarks, tone polite, “What a high level of vocabulary. Children. They get smarter by the generation.”

“You two better clear out!” says another kid, who has a mound of pimples on his chin. He bounces a basketball threateningly for good measure.

Before Shuuzou can start shouting, Akashi says, “Why don’t we play a game? The first team to score ten points can stay on the court.”

There are five of them, and three of the five are taller than Akashi. Shuuzou doesn’t like to back down from a game, but there’s no point in fighting losing battles. But then again, Akashi is looking up at him with an expectant smile, like he is sure that Shuuzou won’t disappoint. 

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Don’t start crying, kids.” He takes his tie off and stuffs it into his pocket.

The kids are laughing and jeering, offering to give them a handicap. Akashi murmurs, “Let them have three points, and then don’t let them score again.” 

“Got it.”

They decide on a one to two points scoring system, losers’ outs, and then start the game. The kids are good, though not half as talented as the Kiseki no Sedai. It’s fairly easy to block everyone except for the leader from shooting. After that boy has dunked three times, Shuuzou passes the ball to Akashi, who says, “You children won’t be able to score again.” His tone is cold now, none of that politeness from before, and one of the boys flinches.

Akashi’s shooting skills aren’t as good as before, Shuuzou is sad to discover, but his passing is still excellent. By scrambling around and straining his arms and legs a little, Shuuzou manages to prevent the boys from scoring again. The game ends. The pimply boy looks ready for a fight, but the leader and others have lapsed into silence, which is compliment enough. 

“Not bad,” Akashi tells them. “In fact, since you were only mildly disappointing, we will let you have the court. Come, Shuuzou.”

“That’s the last time,” Shuuzou tells Akashi as they are heading back to the car. “We are never taking on a group of healthy, growing teenagers again.”

“You were wonderful, Shuuzou,” Akashi replies, beaming. “I haven’t seen you play like that in quite a while.”

“Complimenting me is going to get you exactly nowhere. My body’s all sore now. I need a massage.”

“That can be arranged.”

Back in the car, Akashi takes Shuuzou’s right hand, kisses the fingers slowly, his breath warm, caressing, and Shuuzou gets it then, kind of. To be a 100 percent sure, he asks, “So, you like my fingers best, right?” 

“They’re rather attractive around a basketball.”

“How about I demonstrate where else they can be attractive?” He slides a hand up Akashi’s thigh. 

Akashi says, “I can’t wait.” He grabs Shuuzou’s collar and jerks him forward. “And I want an encore when we return to the apartment.”


End file.
